


The Games we Play

by Silverwing26



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Ciel Is A Brat, M/M, Oil Play, Poor Ciel, Poor Sebastian, Power Play, Self Stimulation, Slow Build, Teasing, possessive demon, sebastian POV, sebastian is a bastard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 20:07:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13395306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverwing26/pseuds/Silverwing26
Summary: The devil and his master are both cruel in their own ways. Sometimes it is a battle of wills to see who will come out on top as they toy with each other through games and strategies. Sometimes it is to teach a lesson. Sometimes it is to prove a point. Sometimes it is merely to torture each other in the glorious way that only they know how. It has been some time since the spoilt little master has called his fiend to his bed, a stretch of time which the devil is very keenly aware of. Who will break first?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [soulless_lover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulless_lover/gifts).



> I completed this work quite a long time ago, but I never got around to publishing it. So here you are. I know it is a slow build, but the story was important to me in this one. There is some glorious smut in here too, promise.

It has been... Well, it has been a while. The young master delights in asking me if I know exactly how long it has been. Of course I do. I am in no mood to entertain his query however, and take great delight in answering him everything but that which he has actually asked me. There are so many games, played each day, every hour, and sometimes - when he is feeling particularly sadistic - games upon games in the same moment. I suppose it is how he entertains himself, although, I think in part it is merely to try and understand me.

Oh, he would never admit it, but the young master is fascinated. He wishes to understand how I think, what - and if - I feel; he attempts to wrap his human understanding around my inhuman nature. It is at times such as these that he asks infuriatingly difficult questions; questions that do not have an answer that he can understand with his human comprehension. I raise my brow at him and am tempted to prevaricate yet again, but he stares at me with that blue eye, wide and soulful. I swallow my irritation and attempt to find an answer that will sate him. These questions often come in the dark of night, while he is sweat-soaked and the sheets rumpled and curled about us. My mark on him, our covenant glows purple in the darkness, illuminating his face and I can feel the need for answers pulse between us. How can I not proffer some sort of response then? He does not always like what he hears, but he looks at me with those eyes and I am reminded of why I chose him, why he is my master, and I answer him.

So I am set to waiting. Well, I suppose it isn't truly waiting. I dress him each morning as one would expect, my hands deftly fastening buttons and smoothing seems. I watch over him as he breakfasts, and attend to my duties while he fills out invoices, signs papers and otherwise attempts to look the picture of the busy adult. _How amusing._ During the evening, I fill his bath, and I listen to his desire pulse in my ears as if it were my own heartbeat and yet... He does not call for me with that voice. His voice, so stern and demanding, has only bade me bring him biscuits, fetch his paperwork, ensure Bardroy has not decimated the kitchen. So that stern face sends me away, and I bow and my lips curl and I do as he asks of me.

As I stand here, trimming the thorns from Master's favorite white roses, I find I wonder how long this game will last. I wonder what objective he has in mind, and to what end this will entertain him. He is in his office, meeting with a production adviser from the Funtom Company and I can taste his disdain on the wind drawing down to me from his open window. The thrumming, the pulsing, the silent call is still there and yet he remains willfully silent.

I do not think I have displeased him. Master, has never been one to hold his tongue when something raises his ire. No, this is intentional and thought out and while I have yet to discern what strategy he is employing, I can see the deep and tumultuous thoughts ticking away behind his eyes like so much clockwork. The young master's mind for strategy is quite impressive. Perhaps he merely enjoys the sport of keeping a fiend by his side, starving in all ways or perhaps he has grown to crave the feel of fire licking at his heels as he escapes his demise again and again, and wishes to test my limits. Of course, that would be futile, for I would never actually bring him to _mortal_ harm. _Not until the agreed upon time._ No. I think this new game has less to do with his entertainment and more to do with his desire, his curiosity, his pride, his insatiable need to feel somewhat in control.

Oh and how my little master does love the control he wields. When I have him writhing beneath me and his sanity practically slips away from him for the pleasure coursing through his body, he falls to pieces. Yes, my little lord; fall to pieces in my arms, shattered in the most desirable ways that are for my eyes only. Slowly, deliberately, I piece you back together again, with my touch, my dark laughter, my oiled fingers and eyes burning with more than the fires of hell. I piece you back together so that you might fall to pieces again in my arms over and over, calling my name with your mouth, your demanding voice, with the quiver of your throat, with your flushed face and sweating brow. Call my name, young master, and he does. He calls me over and over and I growl into his damp hair.

Even in those moments, sometimes I think he will fall back onto the pillows exhausted and bid me pull the covers over him so that he might finally drift to sleep, but he does not. I watch his throat work as he swallows, trying to get his voice under his control again, ragged from the cries and the moaning and whimpering. "Sebastian," he says. I look into those mismatched eyes and my seal, my mark on him proving beyond all deniability that he belongs to me, glows in the darkness as the words leave his lips, commanding and sultry and full of want. "Do it again." The young master's orders are absolute. I feel him stiffen beneath me as my hips move to comply with his demand. I can see his eyes darken, and not with lust, but with the heady power of having his absolute desire obeyed without question. Does he know in those moments when my name falls from between his pink, bitten and abused lips, and his eye blazes along with my carnal hunger that he continues to make me stronger? Does he comprehend that with each order I fulfill for him that he falls deeper and deeper into the abyss. Into me. Such a belief, such _faith_ \- he becomes more mine with the passing of each day and he tightens his _ownership_ of me.

Oh, yes. Such a thing works both ways. My vexing willful little lord holds a tenuous thread, but he holds it firm. His intelligence is nothing to be underestimated so I would venture that yes, he does have an inkling at least. Perhaps that is what this game is about. Has he chosen to experiment with calling to me in all ways but with his beautiful voice? There is a danger in holding such a thing too tightly. As the thread of control wraps about his small fist, were I to pull and he not yield, it would cut into that flawless pale flesh, and rubies would drip from his palm. Has he thought of this, I wonder?

I am aware of the young master's needs and desires at all times. Beyond the unholy connection we share, I am the little lord's butler. As a servant of the Phantomhives, I am at his call, at his whim, always. Dare I say I pride myself on anticipating his needs, his orders, often taking care of tasks before he thinks to ask for them. Aesthetics demand a certain level of servitude from me and this is where my game comes into play. My petulant little lord plays at being the master, and I his servant; yet, he is a fragile human child, and I am a devil wrapped in feathers and shadows, and the tenuous silken desires of my contractor. I look up at the window of his office, my arms full of white roses, and I am fighting with my nature - with my desire. I am fighting with the scent his skin gives off that says ' _come to me_ ', and that flashing blue eye and silent grim little mouth that says ' _do only as I have asked of you and do it perfectly'._

He will be wanting his tea, and I will see to dinner preparations. Afterwards, the game begins anew as I will strip him to his skin and help him step into the steaming bath and I will do only as he asks of me – perfectly – while those beautiful eyes challenge me futilely to break and the touch of my gloved hands test his will.

At dinner, I watched him eat in silence. He seems to be as contemplative as I am. I wonder, if the game begins to wear on him. Is this a test of stamina? Does the fascinating little creature wish to attempt to best me in something? Oh, I _am_ amused. I often wonder what he hopes to prove by attempting to surprise me with physical attacks, putting himself in harms way to see if I will in fact save him _again_ , forcing me to deal with the inane incompetence of the other servants and often ostentatious demands of our occasional guests. Perhaps he merely looks to prove his superiority in some small way. Oh, the boy's pride is a fierce and darkly beautiful thing. It wraps around him and over him like a mantle and when he is in his power with all the authority his position and my service provide him, it flows around him and off his body in great aromatic wisps. My lips curl against these facsimile of human teeth and I am careful to not show how long, how sharp these fangs have gotten when the ice in his voice shatters with a crack around the ears of his enemies.

I have cleared this table countless times and there is a rhythm to it, a dull contrite method to the mundane tasks I perform each day and every night. Never though, have I been so hyper aware of where my fingers fall when I remove a dish, or how I place the silverware on the tray to be carried back to the kitchens. Normally, the young master leaves the table and retreats to his library after dinner for a few hours before the bedtime ritual commences. Tonight however, he hovers just beyond the doorway in the shadows of the hall where he thinks I cannot see him. I do not need to see him. I can taste him and were he to beckon me it would be with direct acquiescence that I would descend upon him. I can feel his eyes watching my every muscle move; more so, I can hear the blood thrumming through his veins and how on each exhale it waivers. I can feel my name on his tongue, pressed against the back of his lips, fighting with whatever stubborn pride or idea is keeping him from giving in to his desire.


	2. Chapter 2

I am careful. It is not that I fear I will make an error for I simply do not make those sorts of human mistakes. I am careful because I can feel his eyes trace over my lapels, my gloved hands, the tails of my coat and I am well aware that the care in which I am holding my body is captivating him. He is as alert for changes in my behavior as I am of his. Sometimes I wonder what infernal trouble he could cause if he were in possession of the heightened senses that I am as he is endearingly impish already. What might that do to my control were that folly to befall us all?

He is shifting from one foot to the other as he watches. Such shy behavior is in direct contrast to the cold, hard exterior he shows polite society. He can be quite bashful at times with the trappings of his nobility stripped away and it is just he and I with nothing but the darkness between us. My young lord presses the back of his hand to his open mouth, with his fingers curled just so, as my tongue draws pleasured whimpers from his throat. And I chuckle and thread my fingers with his, pulling his hand from his lips so that those sounds, almost pained with the intensity of his pleasure, will slide through the darkness and wrap about us. A personal pleasure of mine - hearing him call to the darkness, to me, with his beautiful broken voice stripped of all pretense and wavering with all the raw emotion coursing through his small body.

It is nearly time to ready the young master for his bath and I find as I walk through the darkened halls of the mansion that I am contemplating a question - one of the infuriatingly human ones - that he has asked me. What is is like to be able to see in complete darkness? I tried to find an adequate way to answer his question. Darkness allows one to see the truth in things. Only in darkness can something, _or someone,_ be seen for what it truly is. This is how I found my young master, his soul, so desperate, so innocent and cold; his will so palpable and irrefutable, called to me through the darkness. The utter and complete darkness of abandoning faith, the total encompassing darkness one is surrounded by when they reach their final moments. Through the pitch I glimpsed that soul and oh how it called to me, how it drug me from my slumber and ensnared by senses, such as they are. I glimpsed him for the utter essence that is Ciel Phantomhive, for so shrouded in darkness was he that I could see the simple truth of him. _He will be mine._ And now he is. He is mine and I walk through the darkness below stairs on my way to retrieve him from his office to where he fled and I think my patience is waning. Perhaps tonight, there should be darkness.

I startled him when my knuckles tapped upon the door. I could hear him drop the quill upon his desk and take a sharp inhale before inviting me in. The young master has perfected that indignant stare and the mask of indifference. My lips curl with my hidden knowledge and his blue eye bores into mine, and he knows that I know. I am in danger of chuckling aloud as he stares at me so I veil my eyes and tilt my head slightly. My little lord, all raw nerves and flashing eye, moves from behind his desk with unnaturally stiff movements and then brushes past me in a huff. He spares not a word for me and I do chuckle then and square my shoulders as I follow down the hallway behind him. I am beginning to understand what this is, what these weeks have been about. The most simply amusing part is that I am now relatively certain the little lord has no idea. I almost feel foolish for thinking that a mere human would have planned something like this. Then, I remember who this human is; that this is my little master who was precious and rare enough to call this devil from his slumbering reverie and pierced the utter darkness with his pain. This little human could. But has he? I do not think so. His breath is uneven as he storms up the hallway. His eyes upon me are accusatory. His silence reflects how fervently his mind is working over the conundrum of his selective solitude. He wonders what I am doing to cause this. And I am laughing beneath this human form at the sweet tormented irony of it. Oh little master, what have you done?

Master's bedroom is a massive room as befitting an Earl. He stands by the side of his bed while I cross the span of carpet to draw the curtains closed over the window. His expression is stern, with his lips turned down at the corners and his hair has become rather disheveled, spilling over his forehead in exaggerated jagged waves. The sleeves of his jacket are far more wrinkled than they might otherwise be and my lips quirk at the corners as they threaten to tug upwards into an approximation of a smile. The same one that earns me the title of Bastard and has the young master scold me for smirking at him. Of course, I do not need these outward signs to tell me how agitated he is, that he has rested his head on one fist and then the other over and over, or that he has been shaking his head in frustration. No, I can simply feel it in the air around us. His moods have always struck me thus, emanating from him like pheromones to a beast, or a wayward soul to a demon if you prefer the simple truth of things. I wonder at times if he realizes just how appealing he is? Does he ever sense at all that just to stand near him and absorb the force with which he _feels_ is a test of control on rare occasions? I should not spend too much time in thought on that. Not just now. This strange game of cat and mouse, devil and contractor, butler and master, has not yet had a winner declared. If one is to play against my merciless, flinty little lord, distraction is simply not an option. Not even for a devil like myself.

I once again let my body follow the routine I have built over the years, meticulously pulling his night shirt from the wardrobe and laying it at the foot of his bed, retreating to the washroom to carefully arrange soaps, cloths and towels for his bath. My hand reaches for the tap to begin running water into the bath so it will be ready when I have finished undressing him, and I hear it. It is soft and floating, as a raven's feather on the wind, but I _hear_ it.

"Sebastian."

It has been so long since my name passed his lips with any kind of affection that the seal on my hand pulses with warmth at the mere utterance. When I move to stand in the doorway to answer his call, he is still standing near the bed, his eyes turned down and color touching his cheeks and I realize he did not mean to call me. My lips curl at the corners and I enter the room to stand before him. "Yes, young master?" My little lord has a charming habit of hiding his embarrassment behind utter indifference and outright ire. He tells me he said nothing, that I ought to go back to what I was doing, that he needs nothing. I have had enough of this however, and I remain standing in front of him, watching him coming apart at the seams as he attempts to maneuver himself into check mate.

"Oh but you did call me, my young lord. You have been calling to me for weeks." My eyes pin him to the spot, and the furious little thing stares back defiantly at me and asks me then why am I only coming to him now. I reach a gloved hand and trace the firm line of his mouth, brushing against his bottom lip. "Because you have finally called to me with this." I can feel him shiver at my touch and I know he is as singularly obsessed as I am. His mouth parts ever so slightly at my touch and I can see the tension ease from his body. He huffs at me and tells me that since I am here I ought to get on with my duty and undress him for his bath. I chuckle as I lift him to sit upon his duvet and I drop to my knee before him. The process of undressing my defiant lord is one that has never become automatic, never one I rely on routine to complete. I am aware of where each fingertip touches as I manage buttons, ribbons, sleeves, seams, garters, stockings, and shoes.

Tonight I have taken extra care with where my hands fall along his small, pale body. My thumbs brush the nape of his neck, shifting the hair as I slip his coat free. My fingertips stroke along the underside of his throat as I reach for the ribbon, to pull the knot open and slide the silk from about his neck. I chance a look at his face and his eyes are half closed, and I know he is allowing these extra touches, for he could admonish me for such a thing were he of a mind to be stubborn still. I unfasten his buttons slowly, the warmth of my hand passing through the cotton of my gloves as my fingers brush against his skin. When I slip the shirt free from his chest, I can tell his is holding his breath. I find myself smirking to keep from chuckling and slide my hands over those tiny, pale nipples. His breath releases in a sharp exhale and that eye opens wide to stare at me.

"Sebastian..."

He calls my name again and I am running gloved hands down his arms and over those small hands. As I slip the rings from his fingers, I drop kisses against them. He makes no move to pull his hand back, no. What I sense is his frail control threatening to crack. He wants to grab hold of me, perhaps wrap his arms about my neck, entwine those small hands in my hair, perhaps merely cling to my suit to reassure himself that I am still here. As I remove his short trousers and his muslin drawers beneath them, my fingers linger at the inside of his knee. And while my touch is feather light and nearly imperceptible, his legs spread slightly and my brow arches, letting him know that I have noticed. I thought he would look away, turn his head down and and blush, but he does not. He looks at me with that ocean blue eye and his pretty mouth quirks into something akin to a smile. It is anything but innocent, that little grin and I can feel my blood stir beneath my skin.

_Be careful, little master. The fire with which you play is not the warm and tender heat of the hearth, of the gaslamp, of the candelabrum chasing away the darkness; it is the eternal hellfire of damnation, the utter encompassing inferno of a creature who is the master over shadows and well versed in the art of obsession. Oh, yes. Do be careful._


	3. Chapter 3

He is sitting on the edge of his grand bed looking at me, and he is doing his utmost best to look relaxed and in control. In a moment of charity, I decide to let him think that I am fooled, and I believe that his breath is falling even and steady from between his lips, and that his small thighs, so slightly spread for me, are not tight with tension. I confine my sight to the curve of his face, and the way his lips are set just so, his bottom lip protruding sweetly and the barest white of his teeth visible, and not to his small pink nipples, hardened to tiny stones upon his pale chest. I lean forward with my hand extended towards his hair and he stops me. A tiny hand on my cuff and before I can react further, his other hand has reached up to his face and ripped the eye patch from his eye. He turns his gaze on me and my seal etched across his eye glows, and my hand reaching for his head clenches as the throb courses over the back of it. His small grin spreads into a triumphant smile, the kind he wears when he is so certain he has won, when he has ordered me to destroy his enemies and they are at his feet prostrating themselves and begging for mercy. He wears this smile now, and I can only curl my lips in return and close my eyes so he does not see the fire burning there.

I pull my hand back and I can sense his urge to hold onto my sleeve, yet he does not. I am impressed that as I move to stand, he does not even flinch. He stares after me and I turn my back to him so he does not see my hand curl in front of my lips to stifle my chuckling. My senses, so much more acute than this fragile humans, are afire. I can feel the tension in his body with every touch of his skin; I can taste his desire with every breath I inhale. It is a sweet and fragrant thing, dark and soft, refined and untamed and it is so delicious to me how he struggles to contain it. I can hear the way he subtly shifts upon the bed and his heart jumped in his chest as I stood and walked away. He was so certain a moment ago that I would simply take him, and now he wonders if I will give in at all. The speed at which his mind works is truly impressive for a mere human. I am nearly to the washroom and I am stopped in mid-step.

"Sebastian."

I admit to a certain level of satisfaction upon hearing my name yet again ring through the otherwise quiet room. I turn ever so slowly, dropping my hands to clasp together behind my back and when I look at him, it is with a brow arched and my lips curled. He is sitting just as I left him, but his small chest is heaving and his hands are curled into the duvet. I wait, finding my patience returning as I enjoy the silent torment my little lord is suffering through, knowing full well that it shall end soon. He bids me return to him and I cannot help but admire the ice that has crept back into his voice. He is utterly frustrated, with his own body and quaking need, with the way his voice pitched when he called my name, with me, for walking away from him without alleviating his suffering in the first place. I stand before him, looking down at him with my head tilted slightly. My hair spills along the side of my face, and I know he is captivated and cannot help but stare. It is like this, when my lids are partially lowered and my pale skin catches the hue of my eyes turned to shimmering rubies with lust, that he often reaches a timid hand to stroke my cheek. So it is this expression I look upon him with and I can feel the intensity with which his eyes trace over me. And as the furious, beautiful little imp stares, I am struck with the most delightful thought and I begin to wonder how shameful he will become to get what he wants.

That little hand is reaching for me, his whole small body stretching to touch me. I stand perfectly still, not yielding to the intoxicating perfume that is his sweet scent. His eyes narrow with frustration but his small hand manages to wrap around the end of my tie. He pulls it free from my waistcoat and turns his eyes up at me. A heartbeat passes between us and I can see the wicked grin reflected in them before it touches his lips. He commands me to my knees and tugs the end of my cravat like a leash.

_It is to be like that, is it young master? You wish your loyal beast to do your bidding, beautiful and terrible like a great wild black stallion. Very well. I shall play this game for a short time, and when you are falling to pieces beneath me and can no longer formulate thought, I shall have my victory; my reward for such loyal service._

I bend my knee for him and he pulls harder. His eyes are partially closed, limiting my view. I crave the sight of those eyes, one so blue and flawless and beautiful and the other bearing the unbreakable mark of my ownership of him. I have marred his beauty, I have done so since I claimed him as mine. I continue to do so every time I claim him in my arms, in his bed, in every way I am able and he becomes all the more breathtaking for it. He smiles and leans back as his knees spread further and I am rewarded for my compliance with a most arousing view of my young master. I move forward and I am kneeling between his knees, his small hands holding firm to the leash he believes will control me.

"Sebastian"

He calls and opens those eyes for me. A low rumble echoes in my chest and I am tracing gloved fingers along the outside of his thighs. He slides delicate fingers up the length of black silk and pulls at the knot. My cravat loosens and I can feel the warmth of his body like an open flame as he leans forward and presses his lips to the underside of my jaw. My hands slide up his thin legs and wrap around his back; feather light touches crawl up his spine and I can feel him shiver in response. His fingers fumble with my buttons as that pink tongue pushes between his lips to lick against my skin. Minutes pass this way in heated exploration. I tease him, exerting only enough pressure to indicate where my hands are, bringing his skin out in gooseflesh but not enough to bring any relief to his cravings. He opens my shirt and his kitten soft cheek presses against my skin while his mouth slides down my neck. I am amused and pleased as he treats me like one of his sweets, licking and sucking with sounds of hungry delight bubbling from him. A rare display, my young lord acting like the child he is. I can feel his hot palms pushing on my skin and his body is quivering, stuck between trying to decide if he should push back into my hands, or lean forward against my hard chest.

"Sebastian"

His breath is hot against the skin of my throat and I can smell the chocolate on his tongue from the dessert I so carefully crafted for him. I answer him with my nose buried in his hair, my lips close to his temple, and my words are followed by a slow deliberate lick to the shell of his ear. His breath hitches for a moment and then his hand slides up my chest and his fingers touch my throat before they brush the hair at the nape of my neck. The little master's voice has thawed and while he does not look at me, I can taste his arousal, his embarrassment, as he tells me to take off my clothes.

I stand there, merely looking at him and for a moment his eyes glance up at me and I can tell he is worried that I will not comply. I will, of course; he has given me a command. More than that, I have come to crave these nights, perhaps as much as he has. Were he to know, when I am swallowing his pleasure and feeling his climax-laden screams vibrate through my body that I am indulging in the smallest taste of his soul, would he lord it over me? The little tyrant, of course he would and this knowledge makes him all the more appealing to me. Perhaps the thing that I do not even wish to admit to myself is that I have also come to crave the way my body curls about his, the feel of those small hands in my hair and the way he looks at me with innocent wonder each and every time he is spent and boneless and glowing against the bedding. But comply I do, and I rise to my feet now that his eyes are on me and make a show of undoing buttons and slipping buckles free, letting my clothing fall to the floor.

The young master bids me blow out the candles and envelop us in darkness. I can not help but chuckle darkly and his body shivers because he can sense my arousal and the taut strings of control slipping from his grasp. Darkness; yes, that will make this much easier, especially on you my rare little thing, as you squirm when you hear my voice. My lips are upon him and his skin is sweet and salty around the nape of his neck. I have moved to hold him in front of me, one hand wrapped about his slender throat and the other rolling a sensitive nipple until it is aching and hard. Such trust he places in me. I could squeeze and easily cut off his air supply and suffocate him. I could squeeze harder and snap his neck altogether. Yet he shows no sign of fear. His body shakes, not because of what I might do that would kill him, but because of how my hands and this sinful tongue make him feel alive.


	4. Chapter 4

"Sebastian."

I growl against his shoulder and allow my teeth to brush the skin at the crook of his neck. My name now comes from him, pitched high, and punctuated with heavy gasps. I am pressing him to my body and I can feel him flushing in my arms. My length grows stiff pressed against him and he cannot help but rock back against me. My nails slide down his rib-cage, over his stomach and his hip bones and when my hand wraps around him, he is already so wet and slick that I chuckle and bite his ear. His arm has reached over his shoulder to clutch at my hair and he pulls sharply and calls me a bastard; but I am murmuring all of the ways I wish to debauch him and massaging his skin with my tongue and so his barbed insults turn to whimpers and his fingers, so rough a moment ago, now rub affectionately against my scalp. My fingers gather the pearly fluid and ghost over his sensitive skin, wretchedly free of friction and he bucks his hips in protest.

His body is like a fine instrument and I coax breathtaking melodies from him. I am the composer of his pleasure and as I ply him with attention, he breaks into a symphony of groans, whimpers, and my name called lyrically as he attempts to catch his breath. I want for these moments, where he is a mess under my ministrations. With care I slide him to the bed and I am hovering over him, seeing the sweat shimmer on his skin. He is mine, utterly and completely, and this sight belongs to me alone. I smile wide and fanged against the black backdrop of the room and then my lips are on him again, licking and nipping at his nipples, straining and so sensitive.

"Sebastian!"

He cries out and it is full of desperation and my cock twitches against his thigh. He moans, tossing his head from side to side and then he stares at me, unable to see anything but the glow of my eyes as he gasps, "Stop teasing, I can't take it anymore." I stare down at him and these pupils have narrowed to slits. My proud, noble lord wanting and nearly begging with desire and I am at my limit to resist him. I whisper in his ear as I move him to recline atop his mountain of pillows and my body reacts to his breathy sighs and the way his hand tightens on my arm. Is he there, I wonder? Has he moved too far through his wantonness that he no longer feels shame? It is a magnificent sight to see, him moving his body so slatternly and hearing the words that fall from that devilishly angelic mouth when he stops caring about anything at all besides the end of his torment.

I pull open the drawer of his bedside table and my hand finds the bottle of oil. He hears the stopper come free and whimpers in response. _Oh, you will be whimpering and moaning soon, my impish little creature. When I am sheathed inside of you and you are writhing against me, oh what music you will make._ I hold the bottle over him and pour oil across his stomach., pooling in his naval. It drips down his sides and lower, coating the base of his erection. His anticipation is palpable and his thighs are spreading for me and I am so dangerously close to just _taking_ him, but that would ruin the game.

How far will my young lord go to get what he wants? I slide my fingers down his arm and take his hand. Through the darkness I encourage him to rub his fingers through the oil and then move his small hand to my throbbing cock. I see his lips curl as he begins to stroke me, taking great silent pride in the way I twitch in his hand and how stiff and slick the sight and sound of him has rendered me. My eyes spark with hellfire as I take his other hand and repeat the process. Only this time I slide his hand lower down his body until his fingertips brush against the most secretive part of himself. He gasps and his eyes widen. "You must be joking," he hisses. But my length twitches again in his hand and he moans in return. "I can't," he says and then both of my hands are rubbing his nipples and he is arching into my touch whimpering. "Sebastian, please..." he moans and I am licking his lips with my eyes glowing like fiery coals and I whisper to him. 

"Show me little one. Show me where you want me. Show me. Ask me for your pleasure and I will give it to you."

I am watching him toss his head against the pillow with his eyes squeezed closed; watching with perverse delight at how my whispered words affect him, how he is contemplating what to do as his ability to think flees from him. I can see his small fingers ever so slightly stroking his velvety flesh, his thighs shivering and his small cock dripping. He wants to give in and I want to see him do so. My fingers rub circles against his nipples, keeping his arousal peaked and I murmur encouraging words to him, praising his small movements. I can feel my mark in his eye pulsing despite his lid squeezed over it. His arousal increases my lust; my lust feeds his want; his want increases my power and it radiates from me like smoke from a candle. My young master craves the sensation of my dark arousal, this mantle of power that he has given me. I watch his skin glow with sweat and he practically begs with his whimpering and writhing for me to curl around him and give him pleasure, give him relief. _Now, my young lord, do as I ask of you; be shameless in my eyes and cave to your carnal wants, empower me, that I might bring you to climax shuddering and your sanity breaking apart with me sheathed inside of you._

"Sebastian"

He whimpers and as his first small finger slips inside, he shivers and gasps with the sensation, with his embarrassment and I practically purr my approval, hands worshiping his small form. I find myself responding to the sight of him, growing harder with my length aching to feel the heat of his skin. His eyes have opened and he searches for my face, our gazes locking. He clings to the vision as if he is trying to not drown and I suppose this is true. My hand trails down his body, quivering with the jolts of excitement he is feeling and I trace a finger over his dripping need. He gasps and broken syllables that would form my name spill out of him. I chuckle through the darkness. I tell him I am here, that he is doing well, that he is a good boy and I guide a second of his fingers to join the first. There is no hesitation this time. He is lost to his pleasure, to my suggestion and his body is no longer under his control.

"Se...bas...tian..."

I am impressed he has gotten my name out between his pained and pleasured cries and I smile at him like the aroused devil I am, dark and beautiful and dangerously wicked. "Please," he whispers with his eyes boring into mine. 

"Tell me," I say. "Tell me what you want." He tosses his head to the side but his eyes quickly find mine again. 

That tongue of his, so cruel and sharp at times, so soft and accommodating at others, licks his lips. "Do it," he moans. I chuckle, unholy music added to the symphony of his pleasure and I feel him sigh with relief and then gasp and cry out as one of my fingers joins both of his. I stroke him in ways he cannot do himself and he is crying to the canopy of his bed with his head thrown back, "Sebastian, _Sebastian!"_

He clenches around my finger and I tweak a sensitive, aching nipple hard as I find his most pleasurable place inside of him. His back arches off the duvet, his slight frame shaking with gasps. I thrust a second fingers into him and he spends unexpectedly with a violent shudder splattering across his abdomen. His voice, that beautiful voice breaks with his cries as he shakes and his hips buck, clenching my fingers while he twitches. I am nearly desperate to be inside him and I chuckle through the darkness. His eyes find mine and I am delighted to see how ravenously hungry they are still. "Hurry, Sebastian. I want more," he commands with his chest heaving and his fingers still buried with mine, wrapped in his velvety heat. Insatiable as any child, is my little master. At times he forgets his nobility, forgets his title, forgets his responsibilities to queen and country and house, forgets that he is anything other than his wants and desires, his trembling body and aching need. And when he calls for me then, I am nearly helpless to resist him. Nearly.

"Sebastian..."

He moans and his free hand slides through the hot sticky mess coating his stomach. He watches my face and when my eyes move to follow his hand, he giggles and it is sweet and wholly evil. He wraps that small hand around his soft cock and gasps as he begins to stroke himself. He grows hard under my gaze and I feel him squeeze my fingers, reminding me that he wants more. I growl as I withdraw and I tug his hand away. The grin he flashes me is impish and confident. I am both aroused and driven with hunger to wipe that smug thing from his face. My fingers wrap around his hips and I look from his small hand eagerly stroking himself to my aching cock, dripping so heavily with pearlescent fluid that the sheets are shining with it beneath me. I am growling when I take him, sheathing myself completely and the sudden force rips pleasured cries from my young master's throat. "Se... Seb... Seb... Ah! _Ah!_ " he calls, his body, his arousal, his slatternly voice and glassy eyes calling to me. 

I answer him, "Yes, Young Master?" and the words fall from my lips as a deep purr. 

"Oh! Ooooh!" he gasps and I feel him squeezing around me. But he has been cruel these weeks and I am enjoying his torment, a sweet torture that I alone shall relieve – when I am ready. I grab his hand, slick with his seed and stop him from stroking his hard length. He tries to protest but my hips roll against him, jarring his body with the force and a strangled little moan is all that comes out. But then, I am almost too gentle with my motions, slowly sliding in and out of him. He is whimpering his frustration and the sound delights me.

"Se... Oh, ah! Sebastian!"

His hips are rocking to meet my thrusts and his small, sticky hand wrapping around my fingers. I can hear his heart hammering in his chest and I am reminded of how human he is. I marvel at this and push into him fully, stopping with my full length being squeezed by his inner muscles. I want to devour this creature, this mortal, tempting soul that so vexes and enthralls this devil. My hands slide under his back and I lift him into my lap, his pale thighs settling around my legs and I feel them quiver as he responds to my pulsing inside of him. "You are mine," I purr into his ear with such deep, sensual tones that I can feel him melting in my arms. 

He throws those thin arms around my neck and I chuckle at his words: "Oh, do shut up." 

I descend on those lips, licking and biting and smile with feral satisfaction as his tongue hungrily explores my mouth. I want him. I want to feel his climax, shuddering and violent and uninhibited. I want to fill him until my seed is dripping from him. I nip at his tongue and when he moans into my mouth and rolls his hips downward trying to take me deeper, I growl and draw blood. He jerks in my lap but when I begin to suck on that small, bloody wound, his arms tighten about my neck and his fingers twist in my hair. I am at the end of my patience and my restraint. It is time to end the master's sweet torture. My knees spread slightly and my thrusts become fast and hard. He pants into my mouth, groaning and shaking and trying to press himself further into my chest. His hard little cock is rubbing against my stomach and I know it will not be much longer until he is a quivering mess, unable to form coherent thought.

"Oooh, Sebastian..."

I am singularly focused on this boy, my demanding, hungry, sinfully innocent young master. My thoughts, such as they are, have me consumed by him. My thighs have begun to quiver and I fight my urge to spend. I will have him mewling my name and trembling before I am finished. I can feel each and every one of his quickening breaths against my ear as he presses his cheek to my shoulder for support. I hear his heart hammering within his narrow rib cage with his excitement building. My contract seal pulses with heat in time to his muscles clenching around my throbbing cock, silently begging for release. Every one of his fingers in my hair brings pleasure or pleasured pain as he rubs against my scalp then tugs my raven locks.

Then I feel it. His breathing hitches and he squeezes me almost painfully. His body shudders violently as his climax hits him and his seed splashes across my abdomen; his soft stomach slides through the mess as he presses against me, his lips parted and whimpering into my ear. He cannot form the syllables of my name and I grit my teeth with primal satisfaction as he clings to me to keep himself upright. My hips slam upwards into him, slapping against his velvety skin.

"Sebastian!" he screams. "There! _There!"_ My mark throbbing as the seal in his eye flares brightly and he spends again, his breath leaving him in a sudden forceful exhale. His inhale is quavering and high-pitched and laced with complete, uninhibited pleasure. I stiffen and hold him to me as I rise off my heels to sit erect on my knees. My climax rocks through him, pulsing and powerful. Spurt after spurt, deep inside him and his body shivers with aftershocks, reacting to my cock throbbing, enveloped in his heat.

His arms have begun to go lax around my neck and I feel my seed dripping against my thigh, leaking out of him around my length. His body begins to calm, to soften further as he rests in my arms. I inhale the scent of his sweat, my nose in his hair as I press feather light kisses to his temple and ear. He sighs and traces fingers against the back of my shoulders.

I slide from him and his exhausted body stirs against my chest and a delightful "Ah!" is breathed into my ear. With him cradled in my arms, straddling my lap, I chuckle to myself at the enigma of this little human who so compels me to drive him to the darkest depth of ecstasy and then whisper kindly to him as I assure he is safely nestled into his bed. He blinks at me through the dark as I lay him against the pillows. He touches my cheek with a small, soft hand and I am pleased to see the stubborn resistance gone from his eyes. He pulls me down atop his chest and I support myself on my elbows. My hair falls along the side of his face and my garnet eyes stare into his mismatched ones.

"Sebastian," he says and I feel the sensual tug at the center of my being, the demon encased in this beautifully cruel human form. Yes, little master. Call for me, do not do something so foolish as this again, I think and my lips curl at the corners.

"Yes, Young Master?"

"You were rather vigorous, you great, deviant thing. I shan't get a proper night's rest and I am sure to be aching tomorrow," he chides me but there is mischief in his voice and I see through the facade of a temper. For my little lord is not wanting just now.

"You do not seem to mind."

His lips curl into an impish smile and I am about to run my tongue across them when he speaks and it is content and soft and yet still commanding. "Have you learned your lesson, Sebastian?"

My brow arches in confusion for but a moment and as I look into that calculating, irresistible, pleasure wrought face, a realization dawns on me and I am hard again. This vexing little master, this boy, this soul would drive his devil to the very edges of his patience to ensure his utter devotion, his complete dedication to his lord's wants and desires. This spoilt, desirable, deliciously cruel little master who would punish his servant just to ensure his own satisfaction is mine and mine alone. My eyes narrow to slits and my reply is simply, "Yes, My Lord," as my hips roll against him. His eyes close with a pleasured groan and he loops his arms back around my neck.

It is a familiar dance we enact in the darkness, the only one my young master has shown any talent in at all. Darkness shows the truth of things and between sweat-soaked sheets; he lays himself open to me and I bring him to the edge again and again and again until he is clawing bloody crescents into my shoulders. The clear, bright moon is sinking low when he collapses again, unable to move and bids me lie beside him. His head rests on my chest and I am nearly certain he is asleep…

"Sebastian?"

"Yes?"

There is a long pregnant pause in which I fear perhaps he has fallen asleep again. His breathing is deep and even and I can feel his fingers curled about the strands of my hair.

“Nothing. Never mind.”

My brow arches in the darkness and I pull the duvet up around us.

“I just wanted to say your name.”

I chuckle softly, “Yes, My Lord.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it! I'd love to hear your thoughts and comments. I'm slow to respond sometimes, but I read each and every one of them.


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